by John Norman
The gaunt figure now turned to his right, toward my portion of the crowd.
“Head down, slave girl,” whispered the man behind me.
Quickly I thrust my head down to the stones. It behooves a slave girl to be careful of whose eyes she meets, and how she meets them. We must be careful of looking too boldly into the eyes of our superiors, in particular, unknown free men or women. Brazenness can be cause for discipline. We do not wish to be punished. This is not to deny, of course, the expected and appropriate meetings of eyes in thousands of contexts and times, as in attempting to read one’s fate in the eyes of the master, in examining them to learn if one is in favor or disfavor, in meeting them when commanded to do so, as when he examines us to see if we are lying, or when he wishes us to see the sternness in his eyes, that he is displeased, as in trying to read his will, that we may serve him better, as in looking up at him in rapture, squirming in his power, as in gazing into his eyes, on lonely beaches and in sheltered glades, with love. But if it can be dangerous for a slave to look too boldly into the eyes of a mere stranger, if such can invite a kick or a cuff, or even a whipping, imagine how wary one would be of meeting, and how one would fear to meet, the eyes of one such as the gaunt figure, the eyes of one seemingly unbalanced, eyes in which, it seemed, only too clearly blazed vanity, cruelty, and madness. I sensed, from the time involved, and from tiny movements, and adjustments, of those about, that the gaunt figure was now no longer facing us. He was though now, it seemed, with our part of the crowd. I lifted my head a little. He was again facing the center of the crowd.
“It is now time to demonstrate your gratitude to the Priest-Kings,” said the gaunt figure.
“Perhaps that might be done by filling up the golden bowls,” speculated a fellow, under his breath.
“Hush!” said a frightened free woman.
“The Priest-Kings love a generous giver,” said the gaunt figure.
“Certainly the High Initiate does,” said the fellow.
“Be quiet,” said the woman, terrified.
Half of the twenty or so Initiates went then to the raiders, moving amongst them, holding up the golden bowls. I saw coins, and jewels, and jewelry dropped into the bowls. The other half of the Initiates then began to move amongst the crowd. The crowd, too, or, at least, many of its members, put coins, usually single coins, or coins of smaller denomination, in the bowls. These were fetched from purses, from wallets and pouches. Most Gorean garments, other than those of artisans, do not contain pockets.
One of the Initiates was then in our vicinity. I heard coins dropped among others.
The Initiate was careful to avoid me, and, indeed, even free women. They might, however, drop a coin into the proffered bowl from a gloved hand, touching neither the bowl nor the Initiate. There was no injunction, it seemed, against accepting such donations.
The man behind me put a coin in the golden bowl.
“You will see, I trust,” said one of the fellows in the crowd, “that this coin is turned over to the Priest-Kings, and does not end up in the temple coffers.”
“I did not know the Priest-Kings needed money,” said another fellow.
“I wonder what they will buy with this,” said another.
“Be quiet!” said the free woman.
The Initiate himself made no response to these remarks. He may not even have understood them. I did note that the fellows who were engaged in this raillery did, all of them, however, place their coins in the bowl. They were, I suspected, taking no chances. What if, for example, as an outside possibility, but one they were not willing to discount, there might be some mysterious connection between the Initiates and the Priest-Kings? Why not, then, put a coin in the bowl, particularly if it were not to valuable a coin? As far as I can determine, most people on this world do, in face, believe in the existence of Priest-Kings. On the other hand, it seems, also, that they generally regard them as being very far away and not being very interested if interested at all, in the affairs of human beings. In short, they do not dispute the existence of the Priest-Kings but do not, on the whole at least, depend upon them in any practical way.
The Initiates then reformed their double line and, bells ringing and smoke wafting about, fragrant, from the censer, took their way from the docking area. To be sure, there was at least one significant difference between the procession as it had arrived and the procession as it left. The twenty or so golden bowls which had come empty to the docking area were now leaving it heavy with coin, with jewels and jewelry. Certainly, of the raiders and the Initiates, it seemed the Initiates had had the safer, easier part of things. Indeed, to obtain their share of the riches, they had not even had to leave the safety of the city. Also, it had not even taken them a great deal of time, only a few minutes, really. To be sure, parties of this size, with the bars sounding and such, were presumably rare on the loading docks. For the most part the Initiates would have to make do with what they could obtain from other sources, such as the wages of workers. While not engaged in obtaining their livelihood from more productive elements in society, Initiates, as I understand it, spend a great deal of time in selfpurification. In this, interestingly, the study of mathematics seems to be essentially involved. It is not only women, incidentally, which are forsworn by Initiates but also, interestingly, beans. I am unfamiliar with the historical origins of these matters.
“They are gone!” said a man, relievedly.
The presence of Initiates, I have noted, tends to have a somewhat depressing effect on most people. It is generally a relief when they have taken their way elsewhere. Most men of this world, it seems, would prefer that they confine themselves to the precincts of their temples. The uneasiness which many feel in the presence of the Initiates is that which, or is very similar to that which, I think, may feel in the presence of forces, explicit or implicit, which they sense are inimical to life.
The musicians in the crowd were now again striking up a tune. The hawkers were again at work, calling out the nature and virtues of their gods. I again rose to my feet.
I had come here for a specific reason, of course, not merely for the pleasure of participating in the celebration. With my purpose in mind I considered the lines of captives. I was sure that any one of several would do.
“Congratulations, lads!”a man called to the raiders.
Some, seeing him in the crowd, lifted their hand, waving to him.
“Apricots! Apricots!” called a vendor.
“Pastries!” called another “Pastries!”
“Tastas!” called another. “Tastas!”
“Here is a tasta right here,” said the fellow behind me, putting his hand in my hair, pulling my head back a little, holding me by it.
“Yes, Master,” I laughed. “I am a tasta!”
He laughed, and released my hair. I remained standing, before him.
I heard a jangle of slave bells. A girl broke through the guards and ran to kneel before one of the raiders. “I am owned by Fabius!” she said. “Consider his tavern!” Her breasts were haltered in scarlet silk. She wore a long slave strip, some six inches in width, also of scarlet silk, secured by a cord, the strip put over the cord in front, taken between her legs, drawn up snugly behind and passing over the cord in back. The free ends of the strip, lovely, before and behind, were something like two feet in length. Her brand was the common kajira mark, the same as mine. Her wrists were braceleted behind her. On both her ankles there were slave bells, and slave bells, too, on her collar. She was, I took it, a tavern slave, a paga slave.
“Perhaps!” laughed the raider.
One of the guards then good-naturedly drew the slave away by the hair and threw her stumbling, with a jangle of slave bells, back into the crowd.
“No!” called another girl, from the side, kneeling, in brief purple silk, lifting small pinioned wrists. “The golden Shackles! The Golden Shackles!”
I could smell her perfume from where I stood.
I touched my collar. It was a state collar. My
work lay in the depths. These others were slaves, it seemed, of quite different sort from me. Yet we were all slaves, and all owned, in effect, by men.
“Perhaps,” called the raider.
Doubtless there were many establishments in the city, I thought, that would be only too willing to assist men such as these in the disbursement of their riches.
The treasure was now muchly assorted, muchly tallied. Already some of it was being carried to the warehouses.
I saw a tarn, now disburdened of its loot, surrendered by its rider into the care of a tarnkeeper, who would conduct it to its cot.
Water bags were visible near one of the warehouse doors.
Captives stirred in their chains.
Some of the crowd, now that bulk of the treasure had been exhibited, began to leave.
I wondered if some of the raiders might go this night alone to the temples, to place their private offering, no Initiate about. They might stand there alone and give thanks to the world, or the fates, or the Priest-Kings, that they had returned. One controls so little, if anything, of one’s own fate. The mystery exists. The Initiates, I suspect, understand it as little as anyone else. It is only, I think, that they pretend to do so. That is how they make their living, by the most demeaning and grievous of all lies.
But others, many others, I suspected, perhaps simpler men, or perhaps more intellectually insouciant or robust fellows, would conduct themselves otherwise, joyously frequenting the taverns, prowling the streets with torches, making loud the night, indulging in riotous thankfulness. They had returned, to laugh, to sing, to drink, to hold yet another slave in their arms. These would be neither the soldiers of Priest-Kings nor the foes of Priest-Kings. They would be rather fellows who had chosen to go their own way. They would respect the mystery, but would not much concern themselves with it. Enough to spill a few drops from the first cup, a libation, honoring Priest-Kings, or perhaps, in the name of Priest-Kings, for what is involved here may have many names, what might hold sway over both men and Priest-Kings, the fates, the mystery. As no more then of men such as these than that of which they might be held responsible, as of them only the sternness of their will, the loyalty of their heart, the skill and readiness of their steel. These things they might pledge and give. As for the rest, let the fates, or the mystery, or whatever it might be, be as it would.
But still others, I supposed, might return quietly to their compartments, to be greeted there by their kneeling slave, to be feasted by her and then, later, in the light of the lamp of love, to recollect, and cherish her, in the furs.
Several of the other tarns, disburdened of loot, had also, now, been conducted from the docking area.
More people had now left.
The guards had relaxed their lines. Some individuals went now to greet personally the raiders. Then, some of the raiders, together with friends, left the area.
I saw the belled slave, she in the scarlet silk, leashed by one of the raiders. It was thusly she would lead him to the tavern of Fabius. He was taking no chances on her slipping away from him when he arrived there. The girl in purple silk was between two other raiders. Her small wrists were pinioned before her. They had her on a double leash. Sometimes superb slaves are sent forth to solicit for the taverns but then, when one arrives there, they hurry away, to find more customers. These two, however, on their leashes, would not be likely to do so. These two who solicited would, it seemed, also serve and, I suspected, profoundly. The taverners might not like this, the time, indeed, perhaps the entire night, of a skilled soliciting slave being spent in service, but I did not think they would object. Men such as these, once they have a girl on their leash, are seldom crossed with impunity. I saw some of the captives watching the two girls being led away, leashed. I wondered if they realized that such a fate might, in time, be in store for them.
I saw two officers beginning to examine the lines of captives. One had a grease pencil. They were followed by a scribe with a tablet, who made joggings as they proceeded down the line. Information pertaining to captives and slaves, their dispositions, and such, is sometimes marked on their bodies. The upper surface of the left breast is often used for this. The pertinent information, displayed in this manner, so conveniently and prominently, is easily read. The left breast is use, I assume, because most men are right handed. A similar consideration may illuminate the general custom of branding on the left thigh. The brand, in such a location, is more ready to the hand of a right handed master.
Some dock workers, three of them, were picking up water bags, those which had been placed near one of the warehouse doors. It seemed they would eater the captives before they were marched to the pens. I did not doubt but what their flight had been a long and dry one. Too, it is interesting how watering a captive will improve her appearance. Probably they wanted them watered before marching them down the barred corridors. Wholesalers sometimes congregate outside such corridors, leading down into the pens, looking in though the bars, forming conjectures as to the value of the catch.
I stepped a little forward. The guards did not seem to care now.
I walked a bit down the line which would have marked the front of the crowd.
Two of the guards walked away, conversing among themselves.
“Here, slaves!” I heard a fellow call.
It was the vendor of apricots. Quickly I and some four or five others sped to him, to kneel at his feet. He was in an excellent humor. I gather his business had prospered this afternoon.
“Please, Master,” we begged. “Please!”
He pointed to his feet, and we crowded, one against the other, to lick and kiss them.
“Up!” he said.
We straightened up.
“Here is one for you,” he said, “and one for you, and one for you!”
“Thank you, Master!” we cried. Such things are precious to us.
“Shameless sluts!” cried a free woman, one of the captives, in one of the coffles. She had beautiful blond hair. She was probably vain of it. The officers and the scribe had already passed her point in the line.
I had received an apricot.
“Disgusting sluts!” cried the free captive.
“Please, Master,” I cried, “another. Another!”
he looked at us.
“Please!” we wheedled. We almost rose from our knees, so eager we were.
“Very well,” he said.
“Thank you, Master!” we cried.
And each of us received another! How generous he was! He took the last apricot for himself, gripped it between his teeth, and held the basket upside down, shaking it twice.
“Thank you, Master!” we called after him, as he left.
“He should have thrown the last one amongst you,” said the free woman. “it would have been amusing to see you fight for it. You meaningless she-sleen.”
“I wish he had,” snapped one of our number, the largest, a broad-bodied girl in a coarse rep-cloth tunic. “I would have obtained it!” I supposed she might, indeed, have won the apricot in any such contest. Indeed, even if she had not won it, she might have taken it away from whoever had won it, unless, of course, the master had prevented it. To us she was quiet fearsome, but to a man, of course, she would have been as only another female, to throw to his feet.
“Do not speak back to me!” snapped the free woman.
The brad-bodied girl went to stand near the free woman, looking down upon her. The free woman was kneeling in coffle. She was neck chained. Her wrists were shackled behind her. Her ankles, too, were shackled.
“Down on your knees!” cried the free woman.
“It is you who are on your knees,” said the broad-bodied girl. I sensed she had little affection for free women.
But why should she?
Why should any of us?
Free women were our enemies. They seldom neglected an opportunity to be cruel to us. We were so helpless. They were so imperiously grand in their freedom. We muchly feared them.
“Do not
rise up, Lady!” said one of our number, kneeling to the side. “You will be lashed!”
“I, lashed?” she said, incredulously. But she did not rise up, despite the broad-bodied girl’s provocation. Perhaps she recalled what had happened to the girl in the other line, the other captive, who had done that.
“Yes, you, lashed,” said the broad-bodied girl.
“You have two pieces of fruit,” said the free woman. “Give me one!”
“No,” said the broad-bodied girl.
“No?” said the free woman, stunned.
“No,” said the broad-bodied girl, taking a goodly bite from one of the apricots.
“I command you to do so!” said the free woman.
“You are shackled, and you have a chain on your neck,” said the broad-bodied girl.
“I shall call one of the guards!” said the free woman. The power of free women, if course, rests ultimately on the might of men. In the end, though this is sometimes obscured by social arrangements, it is the men who are the masters. Were it not for men, free women would be as powerless as slave girls.
“Call them,” said the broad-bodied girl, biting again into the apricot.
“Do not call them, I beg of you, Lady,” said one of the girls, quickly. “They will beat you.”
“I am not a slave,” said the free woman.
“They will not mind accustoming you early to the whip,” said another.
“Your time of ordering people about is over,” said the broad-bodied girl.
“But you may, in some years, become a first girl in some household,” suggested one of the slaves in the vicinity.
“Do you beg water?” inquired one of the dock workers of a woman some places earlier on the coffle. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”