"Yes," he said.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"You are on the Viktel Aria," he said, "north of Venna, moving south."
I realized, then, I had stayed longer with the tarnsman than perhaps I should have. I was closer to Ar than I cared to be. On the other hand he, obviously, had not gone directly to Ar. I was grateful for that. He was the sort of fellow who tended to be rather casual about his commercial obligations, I gathered. He had come well north of Ar, it seemed. It probably had to do with the inn at which he had stopped. Doubtless he had stopped there for a reason, probably one of the inn slaves, girls who, for an additional fee, are supplied to the guests, to see to their needs and comforts. His cronies, Bemus and Torquatus, as I recalled, were not in Ar to meet him, having been dispatched, respectively, as I recalled, to Lydius and Bazi. Thus he might well have looped north for a rendezvous with some favorite slave. I did not think he would be bothered mightily if he arrived late in Ar, or if, as he might put it, it took him a little longer, once again, to be on time. Venna, I recalled, was some two hundred pasangs or so north of Ar. The expression "Viktel Aria" means "Ar's Triumph" or "The Triumph of Ar." In its more northern lengths this road is commonly thought of as the Vosk Road.
"Why are there such deep ditches at the sides of the road?" I asked.
"It is that way for more than a hundred pasangs in this area," he said, "except for crossroads and turn-offs. It makes it difficult, then, to bring supply wagons across the road, either from the east or west, the road acting then rather as a wall."
"Its purpose is defensive, then," I said, "military."
"Yes," he said.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Venna," he said.
"When will you arrive?" I asked.
"Tomorrow morning," he said.
"Tonight," I said, "when you sleep, you do not need to keep my legs chained. I will not run away."
"On your belly, pretty Lita," he said, "and put your hands, wrists crossed, behind you."
I did this. He tied my wrists together.
"Not only will your ankles be chained tonight," he said, "and your wrists bound, as they are, but, too, you will be chained by the neck to a wagon wheel."
"What are you going to do with me?" I asked.
"Turn you over to the office of the Archon, in Venna," he said.
17
The Cement Platform
My chin was thrust up, rudely, with a thumb. "No," said a voice. "It is not my Tutina."
The man, then, with the Archon's man, stepped down from the circular cement platform, and rejoined the crowds coming and going in the busy street. The street was apparently an important one in Venna, and led down to a market square. My platform was on the left side of the street, looking down toward the square, and at the forward corner, nearest the street, of a public slave market, some fifty feet in length, along the street, and some fifty feet in depth. Behind this area, at the back of the display area, was a gloomy building with barred windows. It was in this building that the slaves were kept at night. The Archon's man also had his office in this building. From where I was I could see some of the girls, reclining, or sitting about, in their chains. When someone came to examine them, usually only to look at them more closely, they would kneel. The Archon's man would then, sometimes at least, come about and join the prospective customer, praising the girl, and seeing if he could elicit a bid. They were for sale. I was not, or at least not yet. I had been given to understand that if I were not claimed within ten days, I, too, would be put up for sale, even if I might be a free woman, if only to cover the cost of my keep. It had been determined that my Home Stone, if I had one, was not that of Venna, or Ar, or of one of their allies. I was then, in any case, it seemed, without money, without credentials, fair game for the slaver's block.
It was hot standing on the cement platform, my wrists in loose, but unslippable shackles, chained over my head. My shackle chain went through a ring, itself suspended from another chain and ring, fixed in an outjutting beam, extending forth at a right angle from the sturdy upright. There was a supporting beam, too, braced at its lower end against the upright and at its upper end against the outjutting beam. The entire structure was quite strong and solid. It would have held, I was sure, a dozen men. At the front of the outjutting beam, a piece of paper containing a legend, or advertisement, was nailed. I had seen it before it had been put up but I, being illiterate, could not read it. I was very curious to know what it said.
I saw a man pause in the crowd, to look upon me. I feared for a moment he might recognize me as Sheila, the Tatrix of Corcyrus. But then I saw that he was only looking upon me, idly, casually, as a man might examine a female slave. I wished that I had been given clothing. I trembled in the shackles.
How far I was from the department store, from my apartment, from my world!
And how far, too, I found myself from the luxury, the display, the ceremony and glory, the spectacle, of mysterious Corcyrus; how far from the corridors of a guarded palace, from the resplendent, cumbersome pomp of state robes, from the lofty height of a tatrix's throne!
I struggled weakly in the sun, the heat.
The iron on my wrists felt warm.
Men had put me here, as I was. They could do with me as they wished.
I was chained as though I might be a slave!
I trusted that no one would recognize in this pathetic, slim, exposed, shackled woman, so utterly helpless, the notorious and avidly sought fugitive tatrix of Corcyrus. Surely most would suppose, by now, that she had been rescued by adherents of her cause, and swiftly swept away to some safe haven, one far beyond the reach of a vengeful justice. Doubtless even now she was comfortably and securely ensconced in some palace in Cos, or perhaps in Tyros, a guest of esteeming, hospitable allies.
But what if one should recognize me?
I was totally helpless.
I could not run, I could not hide.
I had been put forth to public view.
And in Corcyrus, and the camp of Miles of Argentum, thousands must have seen me!
Muchly did I bemoan my fate.
None must recognize me! None must recognize me!
The sun was hot on my body. I pulled at the shackles again, weakly, futilely. I heard the sounds of the links of chain. How helpless such tiny sounds make one feel. My arms ached from their enforced attitude. This chaining arrangement, of course, as I had soon gathered, lifts and well displays a woman's breasts.
It is one way amongst thousands, I suppose, in which a woman's figure may be appealingly exhibited.
They could do with me as they wished.
How dare they chain me as though I might be a slave!
The sun was hot on my exposed skin.
How helpless one feels, to be so displayed, chained, nude! But I supposed it was not unusual for a slave, and the slaves did not seem to mind it. But doubtless they were used to it, and expected it. But I was not a slave!
How could this be happening?
How could they be doing this to me?
I was of Earth!
Some men paused, and regarded me.
I looked away.
I was not used to being looked upon in that fashion, so straightforwardly, so candidly, so obviously.
How uneasy it made me feel!
I was not a slave!
The men left, perhaps discussing me, perhaps sharing views, perhaps not.
Somehow, angrily, I felt rejected.
I realized I had straightened my body beneath their scrutiny. I wondered why I had done that.
To be sure, the young men who had captured me had not been loath to subject me to lengthy, appreciative scrutinies that would have been more appropriate, I feared, to a slave than a free woman. But that, however, embarrassing and shameful, had been rather private.
Here I was chained on a platform, my arms over my head, at the side of a public street, where hundreds might, should they care to do so, look upon me unimpeded and at length.
I trusted no one would recognize in me the fugitive Tatrix of Corcyrus.
It was hot on the platform.
I moved my bare feet a little, because of the hot cement.
Some others, in passing, looked upon me.
But most people passed, paying me little, or no, attention.
On Earth I was not accustomed to being ignored. Many, I sensed, had been the surreptitious, approving glances cast upon me by men and boys. But here, it seems, I was only another beautiful woman, perhaps more beautiful than some, perhaps less beautiful than others, but in any event only one amongst many others.
One might note, in passing, that the glances men of Gor cast upon women seem seldom to be surreptitious, even those cast upon free women, but tend rather to be good-humored, good-natured, direct, frank, honest, and healthy, and are not unoften appraisive. Gorean men clearly relish women, and value them highly. They seem supremely delighted and grateful that we exist. On Gor women are prized. They want us, cruelly. That is doubtless why they collar and own us.
Earth had not prepared me for the virility of Gorean men.
To be sure, Gorean men, as would any man, tend to look differently on free women and slaves.
One of the pleasures of looking upon a free woman is apparently to conjecture what she would be like, if she were your slave.
If a woman wishes to know what it is to be truly looked upon as a woman by a man, she should be a slave on Gor.
One fellow, just now, was looking at me.
I pretended not to notice, but I did stand straighter. It is interesting how a woman will carry herself before a man, or when she knows she is being watched.
Is there a slave, I wondered, in every woman?
But I am not a slave, I screamed to myself. I am not a slave!
I looked away.
He laughed.
This irritated me.
When I looked back, angrily, he was gone. I did not know if he had been wondering what I might look like, licking and squirming for him, or if his interest had been more speculative, more theoretical or academic, wondering what I might bring, if I were sold.
In any event, he had gone his way.
He, like others, had not much looked at me.
I suppose I should have been grateful for this. But, rather, somehow, I was angry.
I wondered if it might have something to do with the fact that I was not branded, or collared, or if it had to do perhaps with the sign on the post.
No one had told me what the sign said, and I could not read it, being illiterate in Gorean.
For some reason Ligurious had seemed to think it fitting that I be kept that way.
I wondered if he thought I was a slave.
If so, how wrong he was!
"Lady, kind lady!" I called to a gentlewoman passing by, in her robes and veil. I would try to get her to read the legend for me. "Please, kind lady!"
The woman, who had been keeping her eyes straight ahead, as though not wishing to see any of the girls in the market, suddenly, angrily, stopped. I saw her eyes, over the veil. They were not pleasant.
"Forgive me, kind lady," I said.
"You spoke to me," she said.
"Yes," I said. "Forgive me, kind lady. No one has read to me the legend posted over my head. I beg you to do so."
She lifted her robes and climbed to the cement platform. She was about two inches taller than I. She stood then before me.
"You spoke to me," she said.
"Yes, kind lady," I said.
"Where you come from," she said, "do slaves not address free women as 'Mistress'?"
"I am a free woman, too," I said. "I am not a slave."
"Naked, lying slave!" hissed the woman.
"I beg you for kindness," I said. "Even if I were a slave, which I am not, we share the same sex. We are both women."
"I am a woman," she said. "You are an animal."
"Take pity on me," I said. "We have in common at least that we are females."
"Do not dare to see me in terms of such a denominator," she said. "It is not my fault that I share a sex with she-sleen and she-tarsks, and, lower than either, with she-slaves."
"I am not a slave," I said. "I am free. I am not collared. I am not branded!"
"If I owned you," she snapped, "you would soon be collared and branded, and then you would be switched, and switched, and switched, until you wept, and screamed, and begged for mercy, and then you would be sent to the stables or scullery, where you belong!"
"Forgive me," I said.
"Forgive you, what?" she said, in fury.
"—Mistress!" I said. "Mistress!"
"I know your type," she said, in fury. "You are the sort for whom my companion forsakes me! You are the sort he runs panting after in the taverns, the sort whose bodies their masters sell for the price of a drink!"
"No," I said. "No!"
"You are the sort of woman who likes men, are you not?" she said.
"No, Mistress," I cried. "No! No!"
"Why aren't you kneeling, Slut?" she asked.
"I am chained," I cried. "I cannot!"
"Kneel," ordered the free woman, coldly.
"I cannot, Mistress!" I wept. I let myself hang from the shackles, my knees bent, piteously.
"You should not have accosted a free woman," she said. She then removed her gloves and, with them, struck me across the face. Tears sprang to my eyes.
"You must also address her as 'Mistress,'" she said. I was then struck again.
"You have denied your slavery," she said. "You have dared to compare yourself with me, insulting me by calling to my attention that we are both females. You have denied that you are of the category of the sensuous slut! You have denied, lyingly, that you are eager to serve men!" She then struck me four times. "Do you think I cannot see what you are?" she asked. "Do you think it is unclear to anyone who looks upon you? Do you think I am stupid? Anyone could see that you are a slave! It is obvious!" Then she lashed me across the face and mouth with her gloves, several times. It did not really hurt so much, but it did sting, and, of course, it was terribly humiliating. I began to cry. "And you did not kneel!" she cried. She struck me twice again. I hung in the shackles, sobbing. I was most afraid that she might call the Archon's man. He might, if requested, I feared, use a whip on me. She then, angrily, withdrew from the platform and resumed her journey down the street.
"What was that all about?" asked the Archon's man.
"I spoke to her, Master," I said. I called him "Master" for he, like the young men who had caught me at the edge of the Viktel Aria, had made it clear to me that I was to address him, whether I was free or not, with a slave's respect.
"But she is a free woman," he observed.
"Yes, Master," I said. With a rustle of chain I again got my feet under me.
"It was foolish of you," he said.
"Yes, Master," I sobbed.
"Your face is red," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
Later in the afternoon, after I had been fed and watered, standing in the shackles, I decided to once again essay the decipherment of the legend on the post. This time, having learned my lesson, I would not trouble a free woman in the matter. I knew that I was pretty and I had little doubt, even though I was tired and my arms were sore, that, chained as I was, displayed as I was, my attractions might be of interest to passing males. Men of Earth, I knew, would often strive to please even a scantily clad woman, for example, one wearing a sun suit or a bathing suit. I, for example, had had this experience on summer weekends and at the beach.
"Master, Master!" I called to a man. He seemed a friendly enough looking fellow.
He approached me, climbing to the platform. "Yes?" he inquired.
"I am a free woman," I said, "but nonetheless I will call you 'Master.'" I hoped that this would flatter him.
"Whatever you wish," he said.
"And you are surely a very handsome Master," I said. He was, as a matter of fact, very handsome. On the ot
her hand, I was out to get my way. Men, incidentally, will believe anything they are told.
"Why, thank you," he said.
"There is a legend over my head," I said.
"Yes, there is," he agreed.
"Can you read it?" I wheedled.
"Why, yes," he said. "I can."
"Please, please," I wheedled. "Please read it for little Lita." I referred to myself by this name. It was the name I had given to the two young men on the road, and also, if only to be consistent, to the Archon's man. On the other hand I did not mind the name. I rather liked it. It excited me.
"It says," said the man, "'Whip me, if I speak without permission.'"
I turned white.
He smiled.
"It does not really say that, does it?" I asked, frightened.
"No," he said.
"Please tell me what it says," I said.
"We shall assume, for purposes of this discussion, that you are a slave," he said.
"Very well, Master," I said, puzzled.
"Do you believe that slaves should serve free persons," he asked, "or that free persons should serve slaves."
"I believe it is the slaves who should serve the free persons," I said, hastily, "not the other way around." I certainly did not want to have the flesh whipped off my bones.
"And if I read that legend for you," he said, "I would be serving you, would I not?"
"Yes, Master," I said.
"And you would not want that, would you?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Then," he said, "you do not want me to read the legend for you."
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